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A CurtainUp Los Angeles Review
Steward of Christendom
By Jon Magaril
Based on the experience of his great-grandfather, the last Catholic superintendent of the Dublin Metropolitan Police Department, Barry wrangles gorgeous poetry from the wrenching personal costs of the upheaval surrounding the Irish Civil War of 1922. Steven Robman's elegantly wrought production summons up a perfect visual analogue to the character's haunted mindset. But the biggest tragedy here is that, despite so much beauty in the writing, design, and central performance, the production just sits there, resistant to audience engagement. The Taper stage has rarely seemed so vast and remote, even from the closest seats. Thomas Dunne himself is sealed off from the rest of the world in the county mental home. What's more, he's locked in the attic, away from even the other patients. Lucidity is a challenge for Dunne (and Barry, who has a way with words which get in the way of narrative clarity). But there's also an element of punishment here. The Dublin police had worked at the behest of the British crown, a loyalty that, to many in the Irish Free State, brands Dunne a traitor. A decade after the Irish Civil War, the foggy-headed Dunne still waxes rhapsodic of his love for not only his wife, the mother of his son and three daughters (Lear analogies abound) who died long ago in childbirth, but also Queen Victoria. Such sentiments bring out the sadist in the attendant Smith, played with matter-of-fact cruelty by James Lancaster. He softens a bit after Dunne expresses undiminished grief for Willie, his teenaged son who was killed in World War I and played as a ghost by a much younger boy (Grant Palmer or Daniel Weinstein). That idea is the most theatrically imaginative in the script. Dunne remembers his son, even though in his military uniform, as the adolescent who still needed him. But Barry nonetheless leaves this as a conceit rather than developing it in any demonstrative way. He's not one for creating compelling action. The biggest plot point of the first act is the creation, by the more solicitous attendant Mrs O'Dea (Mary-Pat Green) of a new uniform for the former civil servant, who had taken great pride in his old social standing. He seems to have no other clothes except his skivvies. In every way, Dunne's been laid low. Spending much of the time in bed, his consciousness drifts between past and present, in monologues and scenes also marked by a sense of narrative drift. It's as if Lear's mad scene on the heath were expanded to epic length but dislocated from all narrative stakes, such as vengeful children or advancing armies. He is connected most to daughter Annie (Abby Wilde), who appears both in flashbacks and a present-day visit to his room. The only question providing any momentum is whether there was a specific moment that set off his compromised mental state. The answer eventually arrives: Dunne brandished a sword against Annie and lay waste to much of his home's furnishings after hearing about the assassination of Michael Collins, who had supported the treaty with Great Britain. But this revelation has as little impact as the production as a whole. It's telling that the only vivid scenes transpire between Dennehy and the Irish-born Lancaster. The rest of the cast is able but an ensemble that lived and breathed the culture might have been able to infuse a live-wire authenticity into Barry's lines. As is, the script is so literary and the referents so far off in time and place, the production can't tune them in loud and clear. It would have benefited greatly from being placed in Center Theatre Group's more intimate Kirk Douglas Theatre. Nonetheless there are glorious achievements on display. Robert Wierzel's lighting, Jason H. Thompson's projections, and Kevin Depinet's set are grand in scope but uncluttered. They never take focus from Dennehy. Besting his Tony Award-winning performances in Death of a Salesman and Long Day's Journey Into Night, the 75-year-old offers up his body, mind, and heart. Given the disconnect between the audience and the production, Dennehy may understandably feel a temptation to despair or push. But he steadfastly approaches the sad tale with unadorned bravery and vulnerability. Dunne may never attain grace, but Dennehy assuredly does.
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